Crucifix
by kamelion
Summary: A disturbed man refuses to let the dead rest in peace, and Dean pays the price.
1. Chapter 1

Can't thank Jeanne enough for doing a double-beta on this fic, asking to up the angst and repairing my mistakes. Seriously, you ROCK. This one's for you.

Set post AHBL2.

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The cemetery was smack in the middle of town. It had been all too easy to find, given the busy road out front and the gravestones that stood brightly in the sun. The Impala was parked on a curved stretch of pavement underneath a tree. From a distance it looked very much like a short hearse, maybe a little more cheery, definitely more retro, and glistening almost as much as the smaller white markers that stood out amongst the false flowers like tiny icons.

Sam followed Dean over the patchwork ground, cut into neat squares by the graves and spotted by sunlight dripping through the trees. It was peaceful, as it should be. The cool breeze was alive as a constant rustle in the air. The grass hadn't yet lost its summer gleam. It was a perfect, gorgeous day.

Dean, of course, was oblivious to the natural wonders that kept distracting Sam. His attention was strictly focused on his job, which at the moment was reading any and all odd sayings on the gravestones he was surveying. "Man. This is seriously twisted." He leaned over the brilliant white marker. His eyes were hidden by dark glasses, protecting them from the harsh glare, but the amusement was clear on his face as he read the eternal words. "Beneath this grassy mound now rests one Edgar Oscar Earl, who to another hunter looked exactly like a squirrel." He chuckled. "That's sweet."

"Dean, will you cut it out? We're supposed to be hunting for a grave, not poking fun at the dead." Sam was turned away, not letting Dean see his smile. The last thing he needed to do was give in to his amusement at his brother's antics, because Dean was just in the sort of mood where his joviality would turn things sour. He had a way of not letting things go, of carrying things too far, and if Sam wasn't careful he'd be certain to find more itching powder in his underwear, or oil in his shoes, or toothpaste in the bottom of his coffee mug. Dean was a mass of energy that needed to find an outlet, especially after days on the road. Sam hoped they would find the grave soon, because without a case he was in dire trouble of being the butt of about five-too-many practical jokes, and time was running out.

"Uh-uh. Don't blame me. These people poked fun at themselves. This is great." Dean chuckled again and moved to the next grave, bending over to study the name. "God, I love my job."

"Yeah, I'll remind you of that when we're down here getting dirty," Sam replied as he pulled a small piece of folded paper from his pocket. "Ernestine Grainger," he read aloud, and winced in thought. "Why is that name familiar?"

"I dunno. Hey, listen to this one. 'Grim death took me without any warning. I was well at night

and dead in the morning.' Sounds like some demon bitches we know, huh?"

Dean's smile was almost too bright. Sam could only snort in response and shake his head. "You're enjoying yourself way too much."

"You better believe it." Dean paused before a small marker and snapped his fingers at Sam. "Tell me that name again?"

"Ernestine Grainger."

"Present and in the decaying flesh." Dean jabbed a finger at a smaller grave two rows across from Sam and walked toward it, then hesitated for a second as a thought came to him. "Wasn't there an Ernest Grainger in that English show about that department store?" he asked over his shoulder.

Sam's mouth fell into a thoughtful frown as he folded the paper. "Yeah, I think there was, now that you mention it. Something like that, anyway."

"That's why it's familiar. Man, that is one funny show." Dean chuckled and bent down. The edges of the grave were slightly eroded, showing signs of settling though it was barely six months old. Already the marker seemed to lean the slightest bit to the left. "You think she's really under here?"

Sam knelt down beside his brother. "If what Elaine says is true, then no, I don't." The tone of his voice held a shrug.

"And Elaine thinks her uncle is trying to bring this body back to life." Dean huffed and cocked his head to look at Sam. "Dude, I gotta tell ya, that's pretty ripe."

"Well, if the body isn't here, we've got a case."

"If the body _is _here, we've got a puke-inducing night ahead of us." Dean raised his chin at the death date carved on the stone. "This is fairly recent, I mean this isn't like a skeleton or mummified corpse, you know? This is some seriously disgusting shit."

Sam smiled at the hint of distaste in Dean's voice. "Since when are you squeamish? I mean, I think I can remember saying something like that once before, and I think someone called me a pansy for it. Now I wonder who that was?" Dean merely grunted as Sam looked around and made notes on the location of the grave. "I'm more concerned with how we're going to do this with no one seeing," he admitted. "This isn't exactly a secluded place."

"Okay Sam, two things. First off, you _are _a pansy." Dean glanced over his shoulder at the busy road behind them. Colored cars flashed past in a post rush hour frenzy. "Second, I'm pretty sure all these people aren't going to be around at four in the morning."

"Uh-uh. Think of the time change, Dean. We need to be here at two a.m. to guarantee beating the sunrise."

"Really?" Dean looked more disgusted at that piece of news than he did at the thought of digging up a half-rotted corpse. "Damn."

Sam patted Dean on the shoulder. His brother was anything but a morning person. Sure, he could wake up in a flash, ready to gut anyone or anything in the room without a second thought, but don't let him speak a word before coffee. Vitriol had nothing on his acerbic wit when those eyes first opened.

Sam's stomach rumbled, and he stood. There was nothing else to be done for now, anyway. "Let's stop by Elaine's place and get some food."

"Yeah, because I really need to dig up a half-rotted corpse on a full stomach." Dean pushed to his feet and fell into step behind his brother.

"Never bothered you before," Sam said over his shoulder. He grinned at the slap he felt on the back of his head.

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Elaine's Place turned out to be the name of the diner. Elaine wasn't the owner, however. The owner was a man named Ralph Murphy, who had a daughter, Elaine. Pure coincidence. Elaine, the daughter, had moved away after managing the restaurant for a month, saying she was more interested in selling real estate. Her desires took her to New Jersey, then to New Mexico. Ralph didn't bother to change the name; he'd called it Elaine's Place after his daughter was born because she practically grew up in the storeroom in the back after her mother's untimely death.

Elaine the waitress decided, when she was sixteen, that the diner would be a nice place to work because her nametag would hold the same name as the sign over the door. Of course, in such a small town everyone knew who she was, and that she was in no way related to Ralph, but those that passed through didn't know that. The locals seemed to get a kick out of the way Elaine, at the young age of twenty, would hold her head high when asked if the place was hers. Ralph had been all too pleased to tell Sam and Dean the whole story when they first arrived, and she had given a knowing smirk when they mentioned her name.

Dean slowly turned his coffee mug on the table as he watched Elaine working behind the counter. "You know," he said thoughtfully, "for someone who has an uncle trying to bring her gooey aunt back to life, she seems disturbingly calm."

Sam barely snorted as he eyed his laptop. "I get the feeling she doesn't believe it can happen. I think she's just playing along with all of this. Probably feels indebted to her uncle for something and doesn't want to rain on his parade."

"Dude, that's just freaky. I mean, we're not talking about buying a goldfish here."

Sam shrugged, his eyes still glued to the laptop. The screen had started blinking at him annoyingly, and he was getting nervous about it. They couldn't afford another laptop. "Like I said. She's not taking this seriously."

"Yeah? Then why did Bruce go through all the trouble to find us and beg us to come down here, saying she's all stressed out and stuff?"

Sam glanced over the top of the screen. "You intercepted the call. You told him we'd check on his cousin. So don't pin your dislike for Bruce on this girl, okay?"

Dean raised his mug and talked over the rim. "It's not that. I like Bruce fine. It's his pool game I hate."

"You could learn a thing or two from him. Own up, he's a better hustler than you."

"Never. And you need to shut your mouth." Dean set his mug on the worn table and slumped in the booth, his eyes pinned on the young, cute waitress. "Man, why can't she be a damsel in distress or something? I could really get into that."

Sam glanced around and leaned forward, tilting the screen of his laptop down and talking over it. "Tell you what," he said in a conspiring tone. "We'll take her with us tonight. I'll open the coffin, shove her in, bury her, and then you can get her back out."

He grinned as Dean checked in false surprise. "Sammy! Listen to you, man!" He eyed his brother askance. "You're just pissed that she said what she did."

Bastard. Trust his idiotic asshole of a brother to bring that up. Sam clamped his lips together and returned his attention to his computer as Dean pressed him. "I bet you and Elaine's brother _would_ make a good couple. 'Course that would leave me without a hunting partner, but hey, I've had to make sacrifices for your happiness before, right? Huh?" He waggled his brows and grinned.

Sam's eyes were glued to his screen. "Shut up, Dean."

"Touchy! Fine." Dean leaned back once more, raising his mug of coffee to his lips. "What's got you so engrossed, anyway?"

"Resurrection rituals," Sam muttered.

"Like we don't know enough of those?"

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. "I'm just brushing up. If that coffin is empty, that means Elaine's dear, sweet Uncle Rupert already has the body. And that means we're not going to have time to play this one by ear."

"So, what, you gonna take the laptop to the ritual where you can look up all the little signs and come to a conclusion there, Sherlock?"

"No," Sam said patiently, "which is why I'm refreshing now. You should try it, Dean. It's called staying on top of things."

"Yeah, by using the internet. Because that's so reliable."

Sam winced as the screen flickered again. "It's what we've got. You saw their library."

Dean snorted. "Freakin' bible thumpers. Absolutely nothing on the supernatural. Not even a Stephen King novel, for Christ's sake." He frowned at his near-empty mug. "You sure that Uncle Rupert dude grew up here?"

Sam gave a quick glance to the counter where the small blond worked. "That's what Elaine said."

"Now that would definitely explain his foray into black magic. This place is deader than Ernestine." He chuckled, and quickly composed himself as Elaine walked up to their table, coffeepot in hand.

"You guys okay?" Her voice was deeper than one would expect from such a petite person. She gave a small, curious smile.

Dean quickly held out his mug for a refill, smile glowing. "Sure thing. Sam here's just catching up on proper dating protocol. You know, it's been awhile." He saluted Sam with the mug before sipping, and jerked his head back at the unexpected heat.

"Fresh pot," Elaine explained, and turned to Sam. "Are you serious? Cause my brother, he's sitting right over there, and let me tell you, he hasn't stopped talking about you since he first laid eyes on you. It's been awhile for him, too, so I think you've got a real chance there." She gestured toward her brother with the pot.

It made the idea of digging up a gooey dead body seem appetizing. Sam habitually looked where Elaine was pointing to see the man smiling faintly in his direction. "I have to go." He slammed his laptop closed and jammed it into the leather bag as he slid out of the booth. He grabbed Dean's arm. Coffee sloshed onto the table.

"Hey!" Dean rose while trying to dodge the spill. "What, no pie?"

"No." Sam snapped at him, and tried to smile at Elaine. "Sorry. I just remembered, we have an appointment. We'll be in touch."

"But I thought we were going to talk, I thought that's why you came here!" Elaine had jumped back, her coffeepot held out of the way.

"That and pie," Dean groused.

"Uh, yeah! Yeah, we are going to talk. Later. I promise. When we have more information." Sam finally managed a small, apologetic smile as he walked backwards, holding on to Dean's sleeve, pulling him along quickly and practically hiding behind him. "I'll call you," he said over Dean's shoulder. He caught the eye of the man in the booth and swallowed hard.

"Okay," Elaine responded dubiously. And they were out the door and crossing the street.

Dean jerked his arm away once they were out of earshot. "Dude, what the hell?" He lengthened his stride to match Sam's. "That was just plain rude, skipping out like that."

"Are you serious?" Sam rounded on him, glared at him. He stomped to the Impala and opened the passenger-side door, tossed his bag over the back of the seat, then slid in grumpily, ignoring the sly look his brother gave him over the top of the car. Asshole.

Dean wore a shit-eating grin as he eased behind the steering wheel and turned the key in the ignition. "Nah, I'm not really," he answered. "But it was fun."

"Sure. Very amusing," Sam folded his arms across his chest, checking his watch as he did so. "Look, let's just go back to the motel, see if we can get some sleep before we head out tonight."

"You kidding me? I just had coffee!"

"_So_ not my problem."

"Okay. Fine. Lover boy." Dean shrugged and headed to the motel. Sam just kept his arms crossed, and sulked.

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The cemetery was amazingly quiet. Sam realized his fears of being disturbed were completely unfounded, which was great, but on the other hand the degree to which the place suddenly went to sleep made him want to roam the streets and make sure the inhabitants were real and not having to hook into a machine to recharge after the sun set. He shared Dean's view that the place was just a little creepy, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Elaine was perfectly nice, with the exception of trying to set him up with Frank, who was actually taller than Sam himself. Dean had turned away when they were officially introduced earlier that evening at Rupert's place, choking back his laughter when the young man rose from his seat, his eyes bright with anticipation. Sam had just swallowed hard and shook his hand, leaving no openings. Dean even bailed him out, realizing the joke had gone a little far on his end, and it was obvious the game could get seriously uncomfortable. Dean was out for fun, sure, but he always had Sam's back. It allowed for the tricks and jokes and set-ups with no real fear of damage.

So far.

They plowed the shovels into the dirt again and again, creating a large rectangular area around the grave site, allowing enough room for both of them to work around the coffin. Sam already sensed a problem. "Dean, you realize we can't just pry into the coffin. This is too new. What if it's inside a vault?"

"We'll have to hope it isn't."

"Yeah. That's thin, Dean."

Dean stopped shoveling and caught his breath. At this point, they were both hip deep in the soil. It would be time to take watches soon; once the hole was deep enough to where they couldn't see out, it was best for one to keep an eye on things, and dig in shifts. Sam wondered if he should take first dig; Dean looked tired. "I think we can get around it," Dean said breathlessly. "Just take more muscle, that's all."

"You ever try to break a vault?"

"Sam, my reasoning is this." Dean leaned on his shovel. "If old Rupert is determined to get his love out of here, you really think he'd put her in a vault and make getting her out harder on himself?"

It made sense. "Probably not." Sam wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, frowning at the way his brother slumped over his shovel. "Why don't you take a break?"

Dean sighed and tossed his shovel up onto the grass beside the grave. "Yeah, okay. But not long, we don't have a whole lot of time here."

Sam didn't like that Dean accepted so easily. He was fully expecting an "I'm fine" snapped back at him, or at the least, reassurance. He resumed digging, glancing up on occasion at his brother, who was just sitting on the grass, arms folded and resting on his knees.

His concern about Dean was well-founded. It had started that evening with an unexpected run-in with Rupert. They had both taken brief naps, then rose and walked the town, waiting for darkness, checking out the small shops, watching the people. Elaine had noticed them while walking home from the restaurant, and before they knew it. . .

"_That's him." Elaine nodded toward the tall, thin man who stood outside a store, talking to another man. "That's my uncle Rupert." She waved him over. And suddenly Sam found himself inside the man's home, Dean looking rather uncomfortable, and Elaine in the kitchen making snack sandwiches. Frank had gone through the introductions and excused himself with a knowing glance in Sam's direction, something the brothers didn't miss. Sam just cringed and gave a tiny smile, feeling a weight lift as Frank left the house. Dean didn't even comment, or give Sam grief over the event, which was the first thing that pointed to something being...not quite right._

_It was strange how calm Elaine was about the whole situation, which just added to Sam's own unease. Sure, she dismissed Rupert's idea as far-fetched. She even went so far as to pat him on the top of the head like a puppy before disappearing into the kitchen. It was a gesture Rupert took in stride, as though he was used to being chided._

_Dean was unreadable. He looked around the drab house, which was richly decorated yet flat. Sam followed his gaze. He seemed stiff, like he was waiting for something to jump out of the wall and grab him, and Sam found that in following his brother's line of sight, he was expecting that very thing himself. Something was wrong._

_There was no sense of life in the house, even with Elaine's energy flooding the place. The photos were old. The furniture was outdated and too frilly for his taste. "She loved this place," Rupert said tearfully, seeing their eyes wander over the decor. "I can't stand the thought of changing anything." His emotional state, his reluctance to let go, was disturbing to say the least._

_But the thing that bothered Sam the most was . . . Rupert was their age._

_He had expected a much older man, or maybe someone along the same age as their dad. But Rupert had to be in his late twenties, possibly early thirties at a stretch. And he was living in a home that looked like it had been furnished by his great-grandmother. His smile was thin, as was his face. If anyone could be described as having a weasel's features, it was this guy. He even wore a complete beige suit and shoes, which confirmed the notion that he was eccentric at best._

_Sam smiled at Elaine as she entered with a plate of finger sandwiches. He didn't touch them, and fully expected Dean to dive in. But his brother's attention had been captured by something in the corner of the room, something Sam couldn't see. Dean was rubbing his chin thoughtfully with his forefinger, and Sam could see the wheels turning. He was in hunter mode. Like a predator, he'd picked up a scent._

"_How long has it been?" Sam asked Rupert as though they hadn't seen the grave._

"_Six long, painful months," Rupert choked._

_Sam winced slightly. "I'm sorry."_

"_Yeah, me too. Who're the dudes in the black suits?" Dean's eyes hadn't left the corner of the room. His tact was on target, as usual._

_Rupert craned his head around. "What . . . oh. That was my college fraternity. Hasn't been all that long ago."_

"_Must've been quite an event. Looks like you were all just nuts about going."_

_Rupert smirked. "We thought we looked rather distinguished."_

"_Oh, well, sure. Fetching." Dean shrugged it off with a relaxed smile._

_Sam stood in a crouch to see what they were talking about. There was an eight-by-ten photo on the wall over a corner writing desk. The photo showed twelve young men, all dressed in black suits, all with solemn expressions on their young faces. Opposite the photo, also hanging on the wall, was a document. "Which fraternity?" Sam asked, unable to make out the symbol on the top of the paper._

"_Oh, uh, we made it up. I mean, can you see a guy like me in a fraternity?" Rupert gave a small laugh and crossed the room. _

_Sam looked at Dean. He was making a face that indicated he thought about as much of Rupert as he did a snake, and Sam didn't blame him. Something about Rupert was – oily. Untrustworthy. "You keep in touch with them?" Dean asked. It was obvious something had him bothered, and he wasn't giving Sam any clues._

"_With the guys? Some of them, sure."_

"_Yeah, Sammy here likes to keep up with his old college buddies." He looked up and smiled, but there was no meaning behind it. "So what do you do around here, Rupert?"_

_The thin man shrugged as he poured himself a drink. "Little of this, little of that. I've been ill since my wife's death."_

"_Sitting on some old money, huh? Was it hers?"_

"_Dean!" Sam hissed._

_Rupert turned, his glass in hand. "No, it's okay. Yes, it was hers, and no, I didn't kill her for it."_

_Dean blinked once. "That's an odd thing to say."_

_Rupert exhaled in apology. "There were inquiries, because of the estate. It was only recently settled. Ernestine died of cancer."_

_Dean nodded. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said, and sounded like he meant it._

"_Rupert, if she died of cancer, why was there an inquiry?"_

"_She was suffering. They thought maybe I. . ." He covered his mouth with his hand and hesitated. _

"_It wasn't the marriage I'd hoped for," he continued when he was able. " She became ill shortly after we met, and it progressed so quickly, we weren't able to do anything we'd planned. But she's at peace now." He nodded, his eyes fixed to a spot on the carpet. "She's at peace. She's whole."_

"_I bet if you had the chance to do it over again, without the sickness, I mean . . . " Dean said cautiously, watching Rupert. Sam watched as well, closely._

_The hands clenched, then released. His breath stopped for a split second, just enough to be an inner gasp. "Of course," he said quietly._

_Dean gave Sam a knowing look. But Sam caught only a glance of it, his concentration was on Rupert._

_Whose concentration, at that moment, was focused entirely on Dean. And it gave him chills._

Sam thrust the shovel into the dirt over and over, remembering the look in Rupert's eyes that had fallen on his brother. The chill settled again, and he tried to shake it away. Dean had been unusually withdrawn when they left, and offered no explanation for his interest in the photo other than that it just proved how strange Rupert was. And so here they were, hours later, digging.

After a while, Sam stopped, and Dean took his place, shoveling with a vigor that left Sam wondering if the fatigue was merely a figment of a worn-out, overexposed imagination. There was certainly nothing wrong with him now as he tossed dirt from the hole onto the narrow mounds that surrounded it. Sam squatted, leaning on his shovel, his gaze occasionally darting across the cemetery.

Forty minutes and three swaps later, Sam hit something hard. He looked up, wincing slightly at the clang. "Metal. Or fiberglass."

"Oh, that's just great." Dean sighed. "Six months, she's probably part Kool-Aid by now."

Sam just looked down at the vault he was standing on. Even after several hundreds pounds of soil pressure, it didn't bow under his weight. "I'm really not looking forward to this."

"Yeah, stiffs are one thing. I'd rather not swim in gut goo." Dean sighed again, and the vault suddenly glowed under the beam of his flashlight. "Let's do this, get it over with."

They cleared the soil from around the vault. Halfway down, Sam made the discovery. He looked up in disbelief, then quickly set down his shovel. "Dean, look. It's not a real vault."

Dean frowned. "Come again?"

"Here. Help me." Sam pressed his hands to the false side and pushed. Dean added his weight, and the wall slid in half an inch.

"No way." Dean straightened. "How's that possible? A box like this should've been crushed under the weight of that soil."

Sam shook his head. "I don't know." He lit a match and peeked into the tiny opening, then stood slowly. "But there's nothing in there. No casket, nothing."

"No Ernestine," Dean said. "Then Rupert already has her." He looked at the vault, then raised the shovel and impaled it. The shovel went through the side as though it were made of tin.

Sam bent down and looked at the damage. "You know, Dean, whatever we're dealing with here," he looked up, "I don't like it."

Dean agreed. He stood motionless for a moment, then tapped Sam on the shoulder. "Come on," he said. "We're running out of dark."


	2. Chapter 2

The ride back to the motel was silent. It had taken another good hour to refill the grave, which wore them out completely. Of course, it still looked tampered with, but at least it wasn't a hole that some kid could fall into. There was no doubt that news of the tampering would get back to Rupert, which meant they had to confront him first. But it was four in the morning. The sky was threatening to lighten in a thin band along the horizon, but high above them the night sky still dominated. The best they could hope for was a few hours sleep.

The good thing about their training was, they could sleep just about anywhere under just about any circumstances. Thoughts of the confrontation were set aside. Sam set the alarm for seven a.m., which gave them just enough time to get a good dream going then wake from it, cursing.

Well, in Sam's case, anyway. He opened his eyes as the alarm clock went off, growled deep in his throat, and swatted at the offending machine. His sight fell to Dean's bed, but Dean wasn't in it. He was sitting in a chair, his feet propped on the table, staring out of the window. He had at least discarded his boots and socks, but other than that, he looked like he hadn't even attempted to sleep, whereas Sam had fallen before his head hit the pillow. "Dean?" Sam sat up slowly, reluctantly, rubbing at his eyes, then his face. "You okay?"

Dean glanced at him, then back out the window. The sun cast an odd light through the orange curtains, making his brother appear almost wistful, like a person in an old photograph. "I'm fine. Sleep okay?"

"Yeah. Did you sleep at all?"

Dean shrugged. "Not really."

Sam's brow crinkled in puzzlement. He pushed the blankets away and stood, making minor adjustments to his blue sweat pants. He tugged at his t-shirt. The air chilled his bare feet, but he hated to sleep with socks on. He walked to the table, scraping his chair back against the carpet and taking a seat. "What is it?"

Dean continued to stare though the curtains until Sam said his name again. He blinked quickly and turned to him. "Hm? What?"

"What's going on with you?" Sam asked quietly. He studied Dean, taking in the slight circles underneath his eyes. "Do you need to sleep? I can go see Rupert on my own."

"No, Sam." Dean met his eyes before scrubbing his hand over his face. "No," he said, more determined, "I'm good. Just couldn't sleep, that's all."

"That's not like you."

Dean sighed slightly and returned his attention to the window. Sam merely raised his eyebrows at him, waiting for an explanation. Dean recognized the look, and sighed again. "I tell you, Sam, I swear to God, if I didn't know any better I'd say ole Rupert put the mojo on me. Been feeling like crap ever since I left his place."

"What? How do you mean?" Sam was at full attention, taking in his brother's exhausted appearance. The vibrancy of the previous day was gone, and it had nothing to do with lack of sleep.

"I mean I just can't shake it. I feel drained. Like someone's sucking the energy from me, you know? I don't want to move from this chair. I felt fine before we saw him, now . . . " A laugh hitched and stuck.

"You felt like this earlier in the cemetery, didn't you?"

"Yeah. Not as bad, but yeah. I did."

Sam pulled his chair closer with an intensity he could see caught Dean's attention. "Dean, he was watching you. When we went and saw Rupert at his house, his eyes rarely left you."

"Maybe he has the same affliction as his nephew." Dean's smile was weak. "I'm kidding. So you think he did something? Cause I tell ya, Sam, I'm not one to jump to conclusions or complain, but this. . .this is. . .strange. This feeling. I don't like it." His gaze returned to the window. "I don't know, maybe I should stay and get some rest." He rubbed at his eyes.

Sam was suddenly confronted with the image of Dean as an old man, unable to care for himself, caught in his reflection of the "good old days" and pining for what had been, for what he could never again have. The image was so sad and grotesque that Sam gave a small inward gasp, reaching down to grab his brother and pull him up from that chair, away from the window and that damned strange light. "Right. You're coming with me. If he did something – I need you with me. Okay? You feel up to it?" He suddenly couldn't stand the thought of Dean just sitting there staring.

"As long as we're not jogging, sure." Dean managed a stronger smile. He didn't even seem to notice the firm grip Sam had on his arm. "But I'm driving."

"At this point I think you'll fall asleep at the wheel. I'll drive." Sam was already gathering his clothes to change into.

"Whatever." Dean waved the comment away, taking his jacket from the back of the chair.

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"You, uh, might want your boots?"

Dean looked down, then looked for his boots.

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Rupert greeted them at the door before they could even knock. "She's gone," he said immediately, desperately, "someone took her. Someone took my beloved! They tore open the grave and covered it again, the bastards, like no one would be able to tell from the fresh-turned soil! What idiot would do such a thing? How the hell is that supposed to be covering one's tracks? What the hell do they want with Ernestine?"

Sam's mouth was open. Dean looked offended, leaning lightly against the porch wall. Rupert continued to talk as he reached out and pulled both men inside. "Everything she had, she left to me. There is no legal issue here! There is no investigation. Who would take her body?"

"Did you call the cops?" Sam was finally able to ask.

"Of course I called the cops! And they went to the grave, and there is nothing to tell. It was a clean job, they said. Oh Lord, they've got my baby . . . "

"Rupert." Dean reached a hand toward him, then reconsidered. He nodded to a chair and watched Rupert sink into it. It was obvious Rupert was either a terrific actor, or he really had no clue what had happened to the body, and that put him at as much of a loss as Sam seemed to be. Dean steeled himself and bent down to the distraught man. "Rupert, listen to me," he said firmly. "Sometimes, when a person is grieving, they do strange things. Think desperate thoughts, you know? Thoughts like maybe being with someone forever, even when they know they can't be."

Rupert looked up at him with teary eyes. "What are you talking about?" he demanded quietly.

"I'm talking about Ernestine. I'm talking about you feeling that you can't live without her, so maybe, just maybe – you'd dig her body up in a vain attempt to save her." Dean's voice hardened, and Sam took an unconscious step closer to him.

Rupert stared, incredulous. His pale skin pinked in indignation. "What the hell are you talking about?" The question sounded more like a threat.

"Why don't you ask Elaine?" Dean's sympathy was gone. His eyes burned into Rupert's.

Rupert stood slowly, causing Dean to back away slightly and let him. Other than that, the two men stood their ground, nose to nose. "Get out," Rupert said, this time with a definite undercurrent of menace. "Get out and leave this town, or I will call the police and have you arrested for harassment. Do not talk to me again. Do not talk to Elaine again. Get out."

"We'll leave this house," Dean responded in an equally threatening tone. One knee buckled, and he concealed a grunt, slowly righting himself. "But we're not going anywhere until this is settled."

Any pretense of a emotional cover was gone. Rupert pulled himself up to his full height. "You will leave. Now."

Sam clasped Dean's arm. "Dean, let's go."

Dean pursed his lips and nodded at Rupert in his trademark cocky way, leaving no doubt behind that he would be back. Sam shot Rupert a quick glare and followed Dean out, barely catching his brother as he collapsed onto the porch. "Dean!"

Dean was breathing heavily. "Get me to the car."

"Why the hell didn't you say something before? What's wrong?"

"Just get me to the damn car!"

Sam turned back to the door, but Dean grabbed his arm, throwing his weight toward the vehicle in such a way that Sam had no choice but help him there.

He bundled Dean into the passenger seat and rushed to the driver's side. Once in, he turned to his brother. "Dean, what is it, what's wrong?"

"Get me away from here. Go to the edge of the town."

"What? Why?"

"Just do it!" Dean's jaw clenched in pain, his lids were heavy.

The tires squealed as Sam raced from the house and prayed the cops were all out for donuts.

Fifteen minutes later they were on a dirt road bordered by tall pines. Sam skidded to a halt on the side of the road. Dean threw open his door and stumbled out, falling, but pushing back to his feet before Sam could run around the front of the car to help him. He staggered to the trees and past a sign that declared Cobb County a "Wondrous Natural Sight." Once past the sign that marked the county line, he let himself fall to his knees, gasping.

Sam was crouched at his back in a moment, his hands squeezing Dean's shoulders, watching quietly as he fought for composure. Dean sat back heavily from his kneeling position, letting his arms float for a moment while establishing that he wasn't going to fall over, then rested them on his bent knees, his head bowed.

Sam took a seat as well, in front of him, one steady hand on his shoulder. The other braced the ground as he bent down to get a glimpse of his brother's face. "You okay?"

It took a moment, but Dean raised his head and sniffed loudly. "Yeah. I think so."

"What the hell was that?"

A minute shake of the head. "I don't know. I felt like I was emptying out. Like I was nothing more than a shell."

Sam frowned. "Like you lost your energy?"

Dean winced at him. "Yeah. Exactly."

Sam shifted his position. "Is it possible he's using life energy to bring her back?"

"What, you mean taking energy from people and giving it to her? How?"

"I don't know. If he dabbles in black magic, I bet there are a lot of things he knows that we don't."

"Sounds like we need to study up, then." Dean winced and straightened. "But I think we should do it from this end of town."

"Yeah, I agree." Sam tilted his head, taking in Dean's condition. "At least you look better now."

Dean's eyebrows quirked as he considered. "I guess I feel better." He rolled his shoulders and sighed. "Still can sleep for a week."

"You think maybe Rupert has a reaper working for him?"

Dean thought about it. "Maybe. But are there any reports of sudden or unusual deaths? Someone has to die in order to give a soul to another person. No, I don't think he's trading souls." His brows fell in puzzlement. "Is he?"

"Energy isn't going to do much to bring a body back. This isn't Frankenstein."

"Probably has a secret lair in the basement and is waiting for that lightning bolt."

"Man, our lives just get stranger every day," Sam said, and helped Dean up. "Let's go into the next county and find a motel. I'll come back for our stuff and check us out of this one, okay?" Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but instead he complied.

Which meant he really did feel like shit.

Sam did go back for their things once Dean had settled into their new room. He closed out with the clerk at the front desk, then, against his better judgment, went back to Rupert's house. He couldn't help it. He had to know what was going on.

He knocked for a good five minutes before the door slowly opened to reveal a thin, worn face. Rupert glared at him, then backed into the room, letting Sam in. "You just don't get it when I say leave, do you?" he said. His tone was angry but tired.

Sam blinked anxiously. "Look. I'm sorry about earlier. I just want to talk." He looked around, darting his gaze across the foyer and into the sitting area where they had previously spoken. He was silently led back to the chair he'd occupied earlier. Rupert sat across from him, his hands clasped, waiting.

It didn't seem appropriate to just launch into the topic, but the wall of disdain that sat across from him left Sam with little choice. "Rupert, look. I understand your pain, believe me, I do."

"I doubt that."

"I lost my girlfriend. She was killed violently. When that happened, I wanted nothing more than to have her back. My mom, my dad, they're all gone. So when I say I understand," his eyes were intense, "I do."

Rupert merely raised his chin.

Sam took that as an invitation to continue. "I also understand something about black magic. What you're trying to do is dangerous. It can't have a good outcome."

"What are you talking about?"

"Ernestine is dead, Rupert! You can't bring her back. It can't happen."

Rupert regarded Sam closely. "You say you loved your girlfriend."

"Yes."

"What was her name?"

Sam swallowed before answering. "Jess."

Rupert nodded slowly, stroking his chin. "What would you say if I told you I could bring her back?"

Sam's breath caught. Oddly enough, with everything he knew, with the life he lived, the thought of trying to bring her back had never really occurred to him. Even after Dean's ordeal at the crossroads, when he hid his confession that he'd nearly sacrificed himself to bring their dad back, even then he knew better than to try and resurrect his love. That was done, a closed chapter since the day he saw her ghost standing on the street corner. She didn't blame him. She would willingly die for him, and as much as that sudden knowledge hurt, as much as he buried it and blamed himself, he didn't try to bring her back. He knew it couldn't happen, that as Dean often proclaimed, "what's dead should stay dead."

There was also the secret between Sam and Dean, the one that showed Dean was more like Rupert than he realized. After all, Dean wasn't the only one who was brought back by a demon's deal. It had to end here. "How?" he asked. "How would you bring her back?"

Rupert gave a crooked smile. "That I can't tell you."

Sam gave a nod, and his lips pressed thin with anxiety. "Then tell me this. What are you doing to my brother?"

Rupert allowed himself to frown in confusion.

"His fatigue," Sam said hotly. "You're draining him, aren't you? You're draining his energy to give life back to Ernestine. Why? Why Dean?"

"I assure you. I've no idea what you're talking about." His expression was unreadable.

Sam huffed in disbelief. "That's crap. He was fine until we came here. And when we left he suddenly . . ." His eyes widened as the thought struck him. "He's more fatigued the closer he is to you." He stood slowly. "You're already doing it, aren't you? You're bringing her back right now. The process is already underway. Where is she?"

"Do you honestly think I'll tell you?"

"WHERE IS SHE?" Sam's patience was gone. His nostrils flared in anger, and he realized how badly he wanted Dean by his side at that moment.

Rupert stood slowly. "She's coming back," he said simply. "You'll meet her soon enough."

"My brother – " Sam swallowed thickly. "You can't do this."

"He won't die," Rupert said. "I can guarantee that." And he exited the room, leaving Sam to see himself out.

He stood in that room for some time, breathing heavily, trying to calm himself. But he didn't go back to Dean. Not yet.

He went to see Elaine.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"There's an old family crypt," Sam said to Dean that evening. He was seated on his bed, watching his brother pace angrily. "I bet he's keeping the body there." Dean was fuming, and Sam was doing his best to ignore it by keeping the conversation going. "I think if we can get to the body and torch it, this'll come to an end."

"You went without me! To that lunatic Don Quixote wannabe's house! Have you totally lost your fries?"

"Always food with you, isn't it, Dean?"

"Shut up, Sam! This is serious!"

"Yes, Dean, this is serious! I had to get you away from that house, remember? I also had to find answers, so excuse me for continuing the job! Now if I had to do that on my own to keep you safe, then fine! Not like you haven't done boneheaded things yourself, Dean!" He stood, advancing on his brother. "Crossroads ring a bell, huh? One year? What kind of STUPID ASS DECISION was that?"

"It was a decision that brought you back!" Dean yelled. "And I told you never to bring that up!"

"Why? Because it shows what a hypocrite you are?"

Dean grabbed Sam's shirt and shoved him hard against the wall, showing that the distance from Rupert's house had indeed put the strength back into him. "My job was to keep you alive, and I did. I was trying to set things right. Hell, I shouldn't even be here, but maybe that's why I am!"

"I shouldn't be here either, Dean!" Sam grabbed his brother's wrists, twisting at them, but Dean's grip remained firm. "I was stabbed! I was already dead. Back in that hospital, you weren't. _You weren't_! Almost, but you didn't actually die, Dean. Not like I did. You resurrected me from the _dead_." Sam took a moment to let that sink in. "Dad saved your _life_."

Dean blinked back tears. His hands worked in Sam's shirt, his breathing deepened into sobs that he desperately held inside. He finally let Sam go and turned away, rubbing at his face, and Sam saw him forcing his control back into position, putting those walls back up. Sam's stomach tightened, and he found that he was blinking back tears as well. "Dean, I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean that like it sounded. God." He scrubbed a hand over his face and exhaled into it sharply.

Dean didn't look at him. He snatched up his jacket, mumbling, "I'm going out," and quickly left the room. Sam took the hint and stayed behind, though he didn't like it one bit. He had driven his brother from the room. It wasn't the first time. Unfortunately it probably wouldn't be the last. With a heavy sigh, Sam sat on his bed to watch the television and wait.

Dean was gone for several hours, and upon his return he had only two words for Sam. "Let's go."

Nothing else was said. Dean took his place behind the wheel and had the car cranked before Sam slid into the seat. He tore off with vigor and floored it back to Cobb County. The moment he crossed the line, the car slowed.

Sam instinctively reached over to grab the wheel before Dean wilted. Between them they managed to stop the Impala and pull to the side of the road, where Dean reluctantly shifted to Sam's seat as Sam climbed out and took the driver's side. "This is embarrassing," Dean muttered, and waved away the concerned look in his younger brother's eyes. "Just go, for God's sake." He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned his head against the passenger window.

Headlights cut a path through the darkness, eventually shining down a dirt road that emptied into a clearing. Before them lay an open field dotted with the occasional crypt, almost glowing in what light was provided by the crescent moon high overhead. Dean sent him a questioning glance. "You sure this is right? Doesn't seem very used."

"Apparently they had a problem with sinkholes, so they decided to abandon this place and move across town," Sam replied as he parked the car on a worn path at the edge of the field.

"Sucks to be them." Dean climbed out, bracing himself against the car before closing the door with its customary loud squeak and slam. The sound echoed back at them hauntingly.

Sam crossed the front of the car. "You ready?"

Dean held up a box of matches right as something else caught his eye. He blinked toward the sight. "Wait, what's that over there?" He let his arm drop, pocketing the matches, looking to where a faint light glowed over a hill.

Sam joined him. "I don't know. There aren't any houses out this way, according to the map."

"Tell me no one decided to have a bonfire in a graveyard."

"These crypts are all that's here. Maybe there's something else over that hill."

"Like what? A kiddie park?"

Sam's mouth twitched faintly in response. He followed Dean's lead and walked over the small hill towards the glow.

It turned into thick orange light emanating from a ring of fiery torches, each flame dancing singularly in the night air. A large wooden cloth stood in the middle of the ring, draped with a purple cloth. The brothers quickly knelt down, peeking over the crest of the hill. A robed figure emerged, carrying wood and an axe, which he set just outside the circle. "You've gotta be kidding me," Dean said quietly. "Monks at a bonfire?"

"I don't think they have roasting marshmallows in mind, Dean," Sam responded quietly. He checked as Dean's head swiftly lowered, and he stifled a groan. "What is it?"

"I dunno. Got real dizzy all of a sudden." Dean gave his head a shake, then continued to watch the activity below them. The robed figures were gathering just inside the ring, one person in front of each torch. They stood still, waiting.

It was one of those things, not a vision, but a distinct sense of being watched that made Sam suddenly turn and look behind him. He only had time to open his mouth before he found himself engulfed in black robes and grasping hands. "Dean!" Sam managed yell before kicking out at them, but the suffocating folds of robes made movement nearly impossible, and he felt himself being pulled roughly to his feet with his arms pinned painfully behind him.

He looked frantically for his brother and found him on the ground, struggling, two figures bent over him. "Dean!" He yanked at the men holding him. One jerked his head back and smashed a hand over his mouth, dragging him back. He grunted in alarm as his brother was dealt a kick to the stomach, which stilled him enough to be hauled to his feet. He was held firmly between two men, doubled slightly as he tried to get his breath. Pained eyes rose to meet Sam's and take in his predicament. They sparked with anger, and Sam was glad to see it.

There were several well-worn paths on the ground. Sam's mouth was still covered; the only way he could see the path was to try to look down the bridge of his nose, which he did constantly to keep from stumbling. The ring of fire was just ahead, and the brothers were marched into the perimeter. The hand withdrew and they were forced to a stop, still held. Sam quickly looked over at Dean."You okay?"

Dean risked a quick glance at him. "Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." Sam felt a pull behind him and fell silent.

More robed figures came out, twelve in all, hooded. "This can't be good," Dean muttered. He tilted his head toward Sam. "These Jedi look familiar to you?"

"What?" Sam took in the people surrounding the area.

"Count them." He grunted as his arms were jerked in warning. It was obvious the robed figures didn't want conversation between the two, but they weren't doing a lot to dissuade it.

Sam exhaled in confusion, but did as he was told. "Maybe, seventeen?"

"That photo," Dean answered. "I bet you this is his fraternity." The man holding him tightened his grip in warning, and Dean lapsed into silence.

"Terrific," Sam muttered back, feeling a weight settle in this stomach. Several men picked up ornamental spears that looked more than capable of piercing a heart. The monks conversed.

Dean was beckoned forward.

For a moment, Sam stopped breathing. Why did they want Dean? Every instinct told him that Dean should run for it. But he knew Dean wouldn't, not as long as Sam was still being held.

Sam's arms were suddenly wrenched even more tightly behind him, threatening to pull his shoulders from their sockets, as he was dragged back to the edge of the circle. "What are you doing? No! Dean!"

"Sam!" The yell gave him hope, it usually meant Dean was on his way with guns or knives, that sort of yell that said he knew Sam was in trouble, that he was on his way.

But the guards instantly surrounded Dean and shoved their old-fashioned yet very effective spears at his chest, and he raised his hand slowly in defeat. "Where are you taking my brother?" His eyes were glancing from one man to the next, trying to gauge their intention. His voice was iron.

A voice carried over the commotion, one that made Sam's gut clench with dread. He watched the tall robed figure approach, black cloth billowing around him as he passed Sam and stopped just outside the circle that surrounded Dean. The two words he uttered stabbed Sam through the heart. "Take him."

For a moment, for some reason, Sam thought they meant to take him, not Dean. But when they advanced on his brother, Sam cried out. "No! Let him go! Dean!" He bucked against the men holding him, only to feel intense pain in his shoulders. He coughed lightly against the point of a sharp blade that suddenly appeared at his throat. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, this wasn't good, this wasn't happening.

So he watched helplessly as they grabbed Dean, heard him yell out, "Son of a bitch!" and inwardly cheered him on as he fought with everything he had. Yet at the same time it was hard, it was so hard to see the weakened condition of this great hunter. Seeing his brother, his _protector_ for God's sake, being brought down while feeling numerous arms and hands wrapping around his own body, preventing him from helping. Being pinned to a wall by a demon was one thing. In those cases, there was a sense of supernatural force that he knew he couldn't break. But to be held back by mere people – he should be able to break free, to help, Dean should be able to escape this.

But he couldn't, there were just too many. Dean's shirt was stripped away, and it was then that Sam could visibly see the panic as he watched his brother's chest heave. Dean's eyes were wide as he struggled, cursing, proving he was no match for a kitten let alone his captors. Sam watched angrily as his brother was manhandled to the large wooden cross and his arms held rigidly out to the sides.

The purple cloth that had been draped over the top was snatched down. One arm was forced against the beam, the fabric wrapped round his wrist tightly and tied off. The other arm was tied in a like manner. More cloth wrapped around his ankles, binding them securely to the base, laying him out like a crucifix. Sam clenched his jaw as Dean jerked his head from side to side, looking at his hands, twisting his wrists, his breath heavy in the air. As the men backed away from Dean, all staring at him, his eyes found Sam's, bright with the fear he was trying to hide.

Sam exhaled sharply as the knife that was held to his throat disappeared. Still, he couldn't move. His eyes were glued to his brother, who was now wincing in distrust as a man approached him slowly, muttering unrecognizable words. Sam strained to hear, to interpret, but the language was unidentifiable.

Dean's chest continued to heave with anxiety, though his face betrayed little. Sam knew better. Dean's jaw was held tense, the wide eyes now hooded and daring. His chin was raised, his hands had clenched into fists. He watched the monk in front on him like a tiger stalking its prey, only he was unable to strike. "Go for it, you bastard priest," Dean said hotly. "You gonna save me? Huh?"

The monk didn't answer, just continued to circle him and chant.

Sam scanned the area for something to help them, anything. He saw the large axe and the timber lying nearby. He prayed it had nothing to do with a sacrifice. The image of Dean being burned at the stake tormented him. But there was no pile of wood, just a few scatterings of thick branches. Saplings, maybe. Used in the ritual. Nothing useful to him. He held his body tense, waiting for the right moment.

If there was a right moment.

His mind flashed back to a time when Dean was in danger, when Sam was trapped in a closet and unable to help him, and how his desperation flung away the furniture that blocked the door on the outside, furniture he never physically touched. He also remembered when Dean was being torn apart from the inside out by the yellow-eyed demon, and no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to mentally pull the gun to him. Hell, that parlor trick had been one time only, and it showed no signs of working now. He could stare at the axe until Christ came. It wasn't going anywhere.

A figure approached from the side of the gathering, slowly walking to the center of the circle, looking at his brother who stared back with eyes of steel. Sam practically growled at the familiar tilt of the brown head. "Rupert!" The single word sounded like a shot in the night, and he felt his arms jerk up painfully behind him in warning. He grunted, breathing heavily through his nostrils, clamping his lips shut.

Rupert turned slowly as the monk continued to chant. "Sam!" His smile was true and dazzling. "So good of you to join us! How are you?" Sam didn't answer. "Well, I can see how you are," Rupert continued. "Shame. But I appreciate the sacrifice you are willing to make for my happiness."

"What sacrifice?" No. This wasn't – no. His eyes flew to Dean quickly, and for a moment he was flooded with rage and desperation. His brother was tied to a cross, a bound sacrifice. He had already given too much.

Rupert's expression didn't change. "A life for a life."

_No_. Sam tried to jerk toward him. "You're insane. I told you. This won't work. It won't bring her back."

Rupert gave a small sigh. "Sam, your disbelief does you no credit."

Sam tried again to yank away from his captors. "Listen to me! This won't work. She's six months dead, Rupert. She's not able to come back."

Rupert chuckled and lowered his head almost bashfully as he walked to Sam. "That's the problem with your kind, Sam," he said gently. "You're so caught up in your hunt, in killing things, that you automatically assume anything unexplainable should be murdered." He nodded. "I know about you, Sam Winchester. I know about your brother. I know why you came here."

"How?" Sam gritted through his teeth.

Rupert smiled. "I deal with black magic. I've seen what you've seen, and I've seen things you can't possibly imagine. Do you really think there is a way I couldn't have heard about you?"

"You bastard. You set us up from the beginning. You made sure Bruce heard about your attempt to bring your wife back. You made sure he'd call us." Sam's breath was shaking with anger.

Rupert grinned, and gestured to the people in the circle. "We know what Dean did for you. We know what it cost him."

That made so sense. No one could know that, and in that instant he suddenly knew why Dean was laid out on the cross as he was. The symbolism was unmistakable and almost grotesque. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Demons talk, Sam." He leaned in. "Haven't you ever lost anything?" His low voice was almost hypnotic. "Anything you wanted so much it tore the soul from you?"

"You know I have."

"No, I don't think so." Rupert studied him with a frown, speaking softly, thoughtfully. "Because if you did, you would've found a way to bring her back. I don't think you loved her. Not really. Now your brother, he must love you more than anything. He can understand my situation, which is why I'm allowing him to give himself over. To give his life meaning. You understand."

"His life _has_ meaning."

Rupert smiled like the Cheshire cat. "Ah, yes. To keep you safe. Well, now it'll have more. I've been searching for the perfect candidate for six months. Now I have him. This is an even trade, he won't feel a thing. Maybe."

Sam yelled out in fury and lunged forward, only to be forced to the ground. He felt a knee dig into his lower back, heard Dean cry out in anger. The man holding him grabbed his hair, snapped his head up to look at the man who leaned down over him. "I'm going to kill you," Sam snarled. "You hurt my brother, and so help me I'll hunt you down and kill you." It was vicious words for him, and he meant every bit of it.

But Rupert was unfazed. "Of course you will. Provided you can ever stand again." And to make his point Rupert stood slowly, and nodded at the man holding him. Sam sensed something was about to happen, something not good at all, and suddenly felt his right leg wrenched up behind him at an angle that popped his kneecap. He cried out at the pain, and the pressure ceased. His breath caught. He wouldn't sob. He wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction. He could hear Dean yelling his name again, and the anger in his brother's voice fueled his own.

Rupert looked down at him. "I could break both your legs, Sammy. They won't heal. You'll live out your life alone, a cripple, people having to wait on you all the time, no way to fend for yourself. You'll age before your time, you'll be broken. No one will want to be with you in your terminal grief."

Sam fought for breath though the pain. "You'll do this for a corpse. There isn't even a decent body to go back to. You don't know what you're asking."

"I know exactly what I'm asking." Without another word Rupert turned and walked towards Dean, who watched in barely concealed fury, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"Rupert! Rupert, please, don't do this!" Sam strained to see what was going on. Dean was still breathing heavily, his eyes darting from Rupert to the monk and to Sam himself. He caught Sam's gaze and held it, his eyes abnormally large and dark in the eerie light. His head suddenly thumped back against the cross, and his breath quickened.

Something was happening.

The chants grew louder. Sam knew there was nothing religious about it. These weren't monks. They were an Order. Of what he had no clue; there were no specific markings to identify them, and the black robes hid all. He had no doubt whatsoever that they were using black magic, and that spelled major trouble.

Dean's head pressed back hard against the cross. He squeezed his eyes tight shut as pain coursed through him, his mouth held in a grimace. A gasp escaped and forced his eyes open, then he screamed out as his body arched like a ribbon of power.

"Dean!" Sam bellowed. All his thoughts, all his energy, everything was focused on getting to his brother. The weight suddenly lifted from his back, and he saw the man sail through the air. He didn't linger on it, but took to his feet, falling to the earth as his injured knee gave out. He cursed and pushed himself up, forcing his steps forward, stopping just short of his brother who was surrounded by yellow and purple threads of power. Sam stood like a coiled spring, ready to jump.

The threads disappeared, and Dean slouched.

"Dean." Sam started toward him, but Rupert pushed him out of the way. Sam fell to the side, was lifted to his feet and again held by his arms. This time he didn't fight back, because Dean was slowly raising his head, but the way he was doing it – wasn't Dean.

There was no pain in the gesture like there should have been. The movement was too fluid. The eyes weren't right; they were too withdrawn, too gentle. "Oh my God," Sam breathed in disbelief.

Rupert's brows raised in delight. "Oh, oh my love, oh my darling. Is it really you?"

Dean smiled, but it wasn't his smile. Rupert clapped his hands and laughed in delight, cupped them around Dean's chin, and lifted his face to the oncoming sun.

Sam's heart had stopped. Or it might as well have stopped. "Rupert, what the hell did you do? WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?" He couldn't breathe, his world was swimming, no, his world was gone. He kicked and struggled and fought like an animal. "Dean! Dean! Answer me! DEAN!" He felt himself being dragged backwards, and dug his heels in, nearly dislodging his shoes, his eyes riveted to that thing inside Dean, inside his brother, looking a Rupert with adoration. "Dean! Dammit, Rupert, I'm going to kill you! You hear me? Dean, look at me, fucking answer me, dammit!" A pain exploded in his head, and he fell into darkness.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam blinked. His head pounded, his knee cramped, hell, everything ached. The fuzzy thoughts in his mind cleared, and he sat up in a panic. Dean. Where was Dean? His head answered with a painful thud, and he moaned, putting his hand to his forehead, only then realizing how cramped he felt. He was in the Impala, parked outside the motel. How the hell the Order knew where they had moved to, Sam had no clue, but there he was. It was evident they had driven the car back, even arranged Sam in the driver's seat to make it look like he had been driving and fell asleep at the wheel. The keys were in the ignition, but the car wasn't running. He could drive back. He could go back and rescue Dean, only he had no clue what to do once he got him. . .he needed help.

And aspirin. Touching the back of his head proved to be a bad idea. He hissed at the sensation of hot pain, feeling the dried blood caked there. He grunted as he shifted painfully to open the car door, stepped out, and immediately collapsed on his bad knee. "Son of a bitch! Christ!" He grimaced and pulled the offending limb to him, lightly placing his hand on the top of his kneecap. It felt warm to the touch. Wonderful. He panted slightly as he forced it straight, then managed to bend it again, though not all the way. Cursing again, he used the open door to pull himself to his feet, then closed it. Using the car as a brace he limped to the trunk and pulled out the duffel with the first aid kit, then limped to his room, all the while marveling that he had been sitting in the car and no one had disturbed him. What time was it? His watch showed nine a.m. Surely someone had seen him. Maybe no one around here cared, or had better sense than to disturb a man sleeping in his car. He fell onto the bed and pulled out his cell phone. Bobby was on speed dial. It rang a few times, then a soft voice answered.

"Bobby?"

"Sam? That you?"

Sam rummaged through the bag for an ace bandage. "Yeah, it's me."

"Is everything okay? Where's Dean?"

The question almost made Sam smile. He stopped rummaging long enough to rub tiredly at his face. "You'd think I only call when something's wrong."

"That's because you do. What's the damn fool gone and done this time?"

Sam winced. There was definite pain behind those words, pain that Bobby wasn't even attempting to mask. Sam shifted carefully, pulling off his shoes so he could lower his pants. "More like what was done to him." He quickly explained the situation, not bothering to keep the anger from his voice as he wrapped his knee.

The conversation exploded from there. Bobby was just short of a walking encyclopedia and surrounded by text. One look at him wouldn't peg him as a bookworm, and Sam wasn't sure if it was due to the job, or merely enthusiastic interest that kept him so in the know. But for a hunter who no longer actively hunted, at least not to Sam's knowledge, he knew how to keep his finger on the pulse of the supernatural. If he didn't know the answer, he could probably find it, or find someone to help. He was the one who recommended the faith healer for Dean when his heart was a threat to give out, a fact that Sam purposefully withheld from Dean. He knew Dean wouldn't want to go, and was proven right. To say that it was Bobby who suggested it, and not this mysterious friend of their Dad's, probably would have tainted Dean's opinion of the man. Dean respected him, sure, but something had gone down between Bobby and his family when Sam was away at school, something that Dean never talked about. That probably added to Bobby's frustration. But there was no doubt that he cared for Dean and Sam. No doubt at all.

Bobby rattled off what he knew about spells designed to bring people back, communicating with spirits, even went into voodoo mysticism. Sam pressed him and nodded, taking the occasional note. "What about this," he asked when Bobby's resources seemed drained, "you got something to draw on?"

There was a faint rustling sound in the background. "Go."

"Okay. Draw a regular triangle, and an inverted triangle on top of that. Circle around that. Crescent moon above and below, embracing the circle. Got it?"

"Yeah." Hesitation. "What is it?"

"I was hoping you could tell me. It was on a document, some sort of fraternity Rupert and his buddies organized."

"Never seen the likes of it before, Sam. I'm sorry. You sure he didn't just make this up?"

Sam sighed into his phone. "He came up with the fraternity, so I don't see why he couldn't make up the symbol, too. I was hoping it could help Dean."

"Hm." The line fell silent but for the sound of Bobby's breathing as he thought. Sam flipped his pen over and underneath his fingers as he waited. "Okay, hang on," Bobby said after several minutes. "You said Rupert was pulling energy from people? That this woman is possessing Dean?"

"Right."

"Are you sure?"

Sam gave an incredulous snort. "Bobby, I know my brother. That wasn't him."

"No, I mean are you sure he was pulling energy?"

"Pretty sure. Dean was exhausted, he didn't have his usual strength or stamina. No energy."

"Sam, look at this symbol. Really look at it. Does this look to you like something that would conjure a spirit to join with an occupied body?"

Sam studied the scrawl he had sketched out as he described to Bobby. "How do you mean?"

"The upside down triangle could direct power downwards, and vice versa for the other. The circle is his power. Now what about the crescent moons?"

Sam frowned for a while, then shook his head. "I have no idea."

"How about two souls? What if his fraternity was originally about joining two realms? What if he has an obsession with death, and this is his way of combating it?"

"Bobby, that's – crazy. And it doesn't make sense in Dean's case."

"Sure it does. Look at the symbol again."

Sam huffed in frustration and picked up the paper, holding it close to his eyes as though he could see the answer better that way. "Two triangles, one directing power in, the other one directing it out. The circle is the energy, the magic. The two moons are souls. It's a transfer." His eyes widened. "It's a transfer. If that's so, then he's not possessed." He jerked his pants back up over his bandaged knee and fastened them quickly. "Bobby . . ." oh god, his shoes, where were his shoes. . .

"Go. Now. Call me when you find him."

Sam went. He stumbled to the car, ignoring the pain in his knee, and roared back into the county.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Impala screeched to a halt, skidding on the road. Sam jumped out and cursed loudly at his knee. The thought Sam had in the motel room was the most morbid thought that had ever crossed his mind, and it choked him. Seven crypts sat above the ground, just over the small hill from the cross, each one tilted and looking like it could sink at any moment. He swallowed hard and forced himself into the nearest one. Inside was a concrete sarcophagus.

The lid was heavy as hell. He groaned loudly as he shoved it aside, wincing and coughing at the awful smell, turning away from the knowledge that Ernestine's wasting body was in there, a lost love far beyond saving. He tried to hold his breath. It didn't help. With the crook of his elbow covering his nose, he steeled himself and looked into the depths of the coffin.

Steeling himself wasn't enough.

The skin was molded. Stained bone showed in places around a skeletal face. Thin lips were pulled back from rotted teeth in a permanent snarl, bony hands were clasped eternally over a sunken chest. But that wasn't what stopped Sam's heart, what made him drop his arm and lean over the putrid body in near terror.

It was the eyes that were staring back. Large, terrified hazel eyes. Winchester eyes.

Sam choked. His heart stopped, then started back painfully. "Jesus Christ," he breathed. "Dean. Oh – oh my God."

The eyes might have blinked at him if they could. They tried to water, to tear, but they couldn't even do that. They just held Sam's terrified gaze, locked in desperation, locked in hell.

Sam's hands floated over the body, the body that wasn't Dean's but held his soul, the body that might very well crumble under his touch. "God. God!" He was trembling, his hands were shaking, he couldn't touch the body. Dean's eyes hadn't moved, they could have been glass for all Sam knew, except for the fear in them. Sam started to put his hands to either side of the face, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. "Dean." He wanted to cry. "Are you in pain? Do you hurt?"

Dean had no way to answer him.

Sam's voice shook. "How about your eyes? Can you move your eyes?"

The eyes moved slowly, side to side, and after a moment, up and down.

Sam fought to breathe against the stench, against the terror. "Good. Okay, uh, like a head shake then. Up and down for yes, side to side for no. Okay, Dean?"

Dean looked up, then back at him. _Yes._

"Are you in pain?"

_No._

Sam forced a smile. "Guess I don't need to tell you that you look like shit."

Dean's eyes didn't move. They held desperately to Sam's.

"Yeah, I know. I'm scared too." Sam forced another smile, but the tear sliding down his cheek betrayed him. He saw Dean's eyes follow the track. "I'm gonna get you out of this, okay? I've already talked to Bobby, he's the one who said that you . . .he's supposed to get back with me, I mean I have to call him. I have to figure this out, I – shit!" His hands reached out again, wanting to yank him out of the body, to yank that fragile body out of the crypt, to do _something_. "How am I supposed to leave you here, Dean?" His voice broke, and he fought for control.

Dean's eyes shifted. _Yes._

Sam swallowed hard. "I can't do anything down here, can I?" He choked again, and took a shuddering breath. "Okay. You'll be fine. Okay? I'll be back as soon as I can. I swear to God Dean, I'll get you out of this. You know that."

_Yes._

Sam couldn't tear himself away. "I'll leave you uncovered. I don't know if that's wise, but I'm doing it."

_Yes._

Sam pressed his lips together firmly, more tears threatening to spill over. He pushed himself away from the coffin and ran outside, fell to the grass, and vomited.

Driving away from that crypt was the hardest thing Sam had ever done in his entire life.

Sam didn't stop until he was in front of Rupert's house. He staggered to the front porch and pounded on the door. "Rupert! Open up, it's Sam!" He waited, then pounded again. "Rupert, dammit, open this door or I'll break it down!" And the door did open, but it wasn't Rupert.

It was Dean.

But it wasn't. Sam's face worked for a moment in confusion. The eyes – apparently Ernestine had hazel eyes. Just like they did. For some reason he had thought maybe the eyes being the window to the soul and all, they would have transferred over, like Dean's own eyes had followed his soul. Stupid thought, but he had been expecting to see his brother here with different eyes. Blue, or maybe brown. Of course, that was assuming he knew he would see his brother. Well, of course he knew, but he was feeling so frazzled he was questioning his simplest judgment. Had he really seen Dean in the crypt? If Ernestine had hazel eyes as well...no. Dean had talked to him, well, communicated with him. He wasn't crazy.

Yet.

But seeing him there, and yet not seeing Dean. . .for a moment Sam wondered if he could just take his brother into his arms, just hold Dean like Dean used to hold him when he was a child to make the bad things go away, if he did that, would it help? Would this being feel it? Would Dean feel it where he was? So much, just – so much. Sam shook his head slightly, wanting to say, "Hey, Dean." Wanting to see that impish smile or an eye roll or feel himself being jerked into the room in urgency because Dean knew the answer and could get them out of this.

Christ.

Ernestine/Dean did smile, but it wasn't the same. This smile was more demure, not the brilliant, cocky grin he was used to seeing. But the expression on Dean's face made Sam want to laugh, and at the same time it made him want to reach deep inside this half-imposter and yank the soul out. "Is, uh, is Rupert in?" Damned strange. "I really need to speak to him." He really wanted to shove his way in, but he had no idea what he was being confronted with here.

Ernestine/Dean took a step back, allowing Sam passage. He squeezed by uneasily, his jaw clenching, and stormed into the sitting room, trailed by the eeriness of his brother's eyes on his back. Even that stare felt different.

It was no surprise that Rupert was there, because he seldom seemed to be anywhere else. He rose as Sam walked in, dressed in his usual clothes, showing no hint of what had happened the previous night. Except when his eyes fell on his charge. They softened, and his brother's eyes softened as the look was returned. Sam felt sick. "Rupert."

"Sam. Did you not sleep?" He held out a hand, and his beloved took it. Rupert leaned into Ernestine/Dean's ear and whispered gently. Rupert pulled back, and he and Sam were left alone.

Sam watched as his brother retreated. "Where's Elaine?"

"She's working." Rupert sat back in his chair and crossed one thin knee over the other.

"Frank?"

Rupert laughed. "I thought you weren't interested in Frank. Elaine seems to have that impression."

Sam's lips pressed tight together. "Actually, I wondered if they've had a chance to meet Ernestine yet."

"Not yet," Rupert said, watching him from his chair.

Sam glared back. "I want my brother. Now."

Rupert leaned onto the arm of the chair, smiling casually. "I afraid that's not possible."

"Look at him, Rupert! For God's sake, you'd think you would have at least found a woman's body!"

"It is her loving soul I'm concerned with, not her appearance."

Sam snorted. "Yeah. I bet you'll think differently tonight."

"If Ernestine wishes to make love to me, I'll allow it."

Oh hell, no. He could feel the rage and desperation rising in the pit of his stomach. "That. Is not. ERNESTINE."

"It's close enough."

Sam was raging, confused. He bent down and grabbed Rupert by the lapel of his jacket, jerked him from the chair and propelled him backwards to slam against the wall beside the framed certificate. It rattled and fell, glass shattering. "Do you know where my brother is?" Sam slammed him against the wall again. "He's trapped in her corpse, in the crypt. He's not in his body, he's in hers."

Rupert blinked once. "You're lying."

"He can't even move, he can't. . .God dammit, Rupert, he's trapped inside a rotting corpse!" He looked at his hands, at his grip, at the man staring at him. "I'm not. . . Rupert, God, please. . ." Sam released him, his face pleading.

Rupert stroked his lip with his finger. He casually walked from the wall, but the glances he was giving Sam were less confident than before. "I went to a crossroads once. Did I tell you that? I couldn't even strike a deal with the devil. I had to take the matter into my own hands."

Time to change tactics. "How do you know what you brought back is truly Ernestine?"

"How do you know it isn't?" Rupert retorted.

Now Sam was in dangerous territory. His breath caught, and he forced himself to close his eyes and talk. "Because I know from personal experience. It probably didn't work for you because of your experience with black magic. I don't know, maybe they sensed it, maybe they resented it, maybe they were toying with you. But it never ends well, Rupert, and the way you took on the situation yourself made it a thousand times worse."

Rupert looked at Sam. "How long did he get?"

"One year."

"He won't last a year in that body." Rupert slowly opened his desk drawer. "At least I don't think so."

Sam's brows drew close. He shifted slightly as a feeling of foreboding came over him, a feeling that was justified as shiny metal glinted in the sunlit room. He swallowed hard, taking the threat for what it was, his eyes not leaving the gun that was leveled at his chest. His voice was low, urgent. "Rupert, listen to me. When the time comes, what if the hell hounds come for Dean's body, and take Ernestine's soul back with them to hell? I doubt they're going to know the difference. They just tear the body apart and take what's in it."

That stopped Rupert in his tracks. Sam saw this, and pressed on. "You've put your love into a condemned body, Rupert. You just bought her a year, and a death worse than what she knew, not to mention eternal damnation." Sam took a single step toward him. "She can't even talk to you, can she? She can't communicate. You say you'll let her make love to you, but you won't. What are you really getting out of this?"

Rupert finally looked at Sam. Really looked at him, and for the first time Sam felt as though he saw Rupert as a true person, the way he was before his grief consumed and changed him. "She was supposed to rise from the crypt," he said in a broken voice. "She was supposed to come back whole and pure. Your brother was supposed to stay in his own body, drained. I don't understand what happened."

"This is what happened." Sam raised his hands higher, showing no ill-intent, and limped to the corner of the room. He stooped careful to pick up the broken frame and ripped out the fraternity document. "You crossed their souls." He held out the document, tapping the corner. "This symbol is a transfer, from one body to another."

"No," Rupert said. He set down the gun on a side table and hurried to his desk, where he yanked open the top drawer and pulled out an old book. Flipping through the pages, he said, "I found that symbol years ago. It signifies the balance between life and death, that one merely crosses over into another realm, and that they can come back to the old one."

"Which you did. Only you didn't put them where they belong. The pyramids cross, Rupert. Here," he pointed, "here, here and here. You just read something out of the book and used it in desperation. You have no idea what you've really done."

Rupert looked where Sam was pointing. "Ley lines."

"Well, energy lines, in a sense. Yes." Sam sighed and ran his hand through his thick hair. Rupert was slumped, no longer a threat. He seemed twelve feet smaller and spent. Sam raised his eyes to the ceiling with a sigh, having no problem whatsoever with voicing his thought. "You really fucked this one up, Rupert."

Rupert found what he was looking for in the book. He read through it quickly, and passed it to Sam.

Sam took the book and slowly walked the room, reading, then flipping the pages in disgust. Incredible, absolutely incredible. He'd seen books like this at Bobby's place, and even he didn't dare touch them. Sam snapped the book closed with one hand, and sent Rupert a look of pure disdain. He raised the book, shaking it to make his point. "Just how acquainted are you with the dark arts?"

Rupert knew he was on slippery ground, and it showed. All of the bravado was gone, everything that had made him big was torn down. "I've worked a few spells."

"And?"

Rupert shrugged. "The Fraternity. . ."

"Is crap, Rupert! It's all crap! You were kids looking for a metaphysical joyride! You were bored out of your skulls here and needed to stir things up! Tell me, did anyone die because of you and your frat brothers?"

"What are you talking about?"

Sam approached him angrily and waved the book in his face. "This isn't a book about the dark arts. Not like you think. This isn't something to play around with, this is the real deal. These are pacts. This leaves everything in the hands of the demon you've summoned. That's right," Sam nodded, "you didn't bring back Ernestine. You summoned a demon, and now that demon is in my brother's body. My brother is in Ernestine's body. Now where do you suppose that puts Ernestine, huh?" Sam hovered over Rupert, his tall stance threatening.

Rupert paled. He slid to the floor, and Sam made no move to help him. "Oh, God. I've sent her to hell."

"That's right. Screw the transfer. She's already there. I bet this is the same demon you tried to make a deal with. You were played, Rupert."

Rupert turned to Sam. "You've got to help me. You've got to get Ernestine out of hell, please."

It was pathetic how Rupert suddenly turned to mush with no claims of magic to stand on. Sam was beginning to realize how lonely the man really was, how he defined himself by the image he was able to project. Ernestine was probably the only person to see through all that. "You have to promise me," Sam said, "never to use this crap again. And this book goes with me." And to Bobby's place, which was merely cars and walls surrounding a supernatural library.

Rupert nodded. "What do we do?"

Sam sighed and looked to the door where the demon had walked out. "I'm working on it. But for right now I think you need to come with me."

"I can't just leave her here!"

Sam knew he was right. "Fine. I'll be right outside, don't do anything, don't say anything, not until I get back. Got it?" Rupert merely nodded. Sam headed to the front door, pausing as a chill crept along his spine. He turned to see Dean watching him with cold eyes. Sam swallowed hard and yanked the door open, waiting until he reached the sidewalk to whip out his phone. He pressed the speed dial, glancing over his shoulder at the house. He could see movement just inside the door, and the small curtain pull aside to show a face. He knew it was Dean, but the fact that he couldn't see much more than a faint outline of the familiar features added to his unease. His attention snapped back as a voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Bobby?"

"Sam? Did you figure things out yet?"

It was the protective streak in the older man that caused the layer of panic in his voice. The corners of Sam's mouth quirked slightly, despite his sigh. "Bobby, it's a demon. Rupert summoned it, it's in Dean's body." Sam stole another glance at the house.

"Then is Dean. . ."

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"Son of a bitch." Sam could practically hear Bobby pacing the area around his desk. It occurred to him in a moment of visualizing the older man that he had never seen him without a trucker's cap. He wondered idly if his barber simply cut his hair around it. "What do you need from me?" Bobby asked him.

"Okay, as far as I can tell, the demon's in Dean's body, and Dean's in Ernestine's." He hesitated, watching the form who was staring at him from the door's small window. "Would that leave Ernestine in hell?" he asked in a lower voice.

"Three-way swap." Bobby sighed heavily over the line. "It'd make sense, unless Ernestine was never summoned in the first place and her soul was never tampered with."

Sam shifted, angling away from the house. "So this may be as easy as a regular exorcism? You think that would put Dean back in his body?"

"An exorcism would get the demon out of Dean's body. It wouldn't put his soul back in it."

Sam cursed and clutched his cell phone tightly. "Bobby, that body is decaying around him, and he knows it. We've got to do something, fast."

"You think I don't know that?"

Sam winced at the snapped tone, and then relaxed into Bobby's sigh. Bobby's sighs were a good thing; it meant he was working on the problem rather than dismissing it.

"Look, give me an hour," the older man said. "I might have an idea, but I need to check something first."

An hour. He couldn't wait an hour. He'd have to. "Yeah, okay. Thanks, Bobby. Call you in an hour." He closed the call in aggravation and exhaled roughly, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

Dean was gone when Sam walked back onto the porch. He re-entered the house slowly, and closed the door quietly behind him. Rupert hadn't moved. "She was just in here," he said sadly. "She just looks at me and smiles."

"Rupert, it isn't her." Rupert turned to look out of the window beside his chair, his back stiff. For a moment Sam wanted nothing more than to push on that stiff back and shove him through the glass. He set the phone onto the coffee table with an audible thump and sat. "So, you have any ideas?" he asked by way of placing the blame.

Rupert turned. "Would you listen if I had?"

"Probably not." But his attention was on Rupert.

Rupert faced Sam and rubbed his hands together, his gaze on the carpet like he was afraid to meet Sam's eyes. He paused, gathering his thoughts, then continued to rub his hands together as he spoke in a low voice. "I remember reading a ritual years back, when we first organized the fraternity. It locked a demon into a bargain."

Sam frowned. "I thought only dealing demons could make bargains. We're not positive that's what you summoned."

Rupert raised a hand. "I know. Hear me out." He glanced toward the hallway nervously. "There is a binding spell you can use to send a demon back to hell, and make sure it never returns."

"Yeah, yeah, I know several," Sam dismissed as he stood, lowering his tone to match Rupert's. "Rupert, sending this thing back to hell isn't the issue. The issues is getting Dean's soul back in his body. Now isn't there some way to reverse the transfer? Dammit, you worked the spell! There has to be a way to reverse it!"

"I don't know how!"

"Rupert." Sam's attention was caught by a movement, a shadow, and he knew the demon was hovering. His low voice was dangerous. "First, you're going to put that gun back in your desk. Then you're going to sit in that chair, and you are going to carefully and quietly tell me everything you know about this spell, starting from where you first found it, up to the exact words that were uttered. Do you understand me?"

Rupert understood.


	4. Chapter 4

The cell phone rang about fifteen minutes later, scaring the crap out of Sam. Dean had continued to hover, but made no move. Sam snatched the phone up from the table. "Bobby? What have you got?"

"You okay? You sound tense."

"Are you serious?"

"I mean you sound like something's going on, right now."

"Well," Sam looked toward the hall, "that demon in Dean's body keeps staking us out. I can't decide what its intentions are. It hasn't made a move, but it knows something is up. It's like it's in a daze or something."

"Probably not up to full strength yet."

"Full strength? We've seen possessions before, the demon just snaps into a body and then all hell breaks loose."

"Depends. Maybe the transfer isn't complete, maybe it takes time. Without knowing exactly what he did, it's hard to say."

"I guess that's good news. What else you got?"

"Is there a way that Rupert could have established a psychic link between Ernestine and Dean?"

Sam's face tensed. He glanced at Rupert, then took the conversation back outside, closing the door firmly behind him. "Ernestine is dead. How the hell. . .?"

"It can still be done. If this Rupert fella is dead set on keeping her memory alive, then there is all sorts of energy in that room that can be used to set a link between the living and the deceased. All he needs to do is establish a connection between Ernestine and Dean, and the switch is a piece of cake."

"You make it sound easy."

"You know how these things work. Not as easy as it sounds, there's just a simple explanation for it. Now, was anything unusual said when you two visited Rupert?"

Sam thought back. "It would have had to happen fast. Dean felt drained the minute he left that place."

"Something he said, something he touched, saw. . ."

Sam blinked. "He's the one who noticed that symbol." There was silence on the other line. "Bobby?"

"Did he draw it out in Rupert's presence? Make a copy of it? Anything?"

Sam's brow furrowed as he forced himself to think back. "No. No, he didn't do anything. Just stared at it for a long time."

"It might have been enough. If he focused even a little energy on it, Rupert could have picked up on that."

"He did show an interest in it, I was kinda surprised." Sam raked his free hand through his hair. "So he did this without knowing it?"

"He didn't do it. He just gave Rupert a key."

"So how do we fix this?"

"The link has to be severed."

"How? By destroying the symbol?"

"You can destroy the document. But I'd suggest drawing the symbol on the ground where the swap took place, and put the bodies there."

"One on each moon." Sam straightened. "Wait. I think. . .I think it's already there. The cross is at one end. Her crypt is at the other." Sam's eyes widened. "I remember seeing dirt tracks. I thought it was where people just walked a lot, you know, getting to the crypts and back."

"You have to destroy it. Tonight. Crescent moon is still in the sky, barely," Bobby said quickly. "There isn't much time."

"Right. Thanks, Bobby." Sam hung up quickly and returned to the house. He bumped into Rupert in the foyer. "We have to get that demon. We have to go to the crypts."

"Get the – How?"

"Hey, it's your wife! Figure something out!"

"Not my wife." Rupert chewed on his nails in a manner that reminded Sam of Dean, and made his chest ache. "Look, best chance I think is to take – it – for a ride and meet you there."

Sam shook his head. "It's suspicious. I don't think that'll work." And as he spoke, the demon entered the room.

Sam and Rupert froze, each looking at the demon.

Who smiled at them, then scowled.

"Rupert," Sam warned. Then he was airborne, slamming into the large glass curio case to the right of the window. It shattered around him as he fell.

"Sam?" Rupert started to back away, his eyes glued to the demon that slowly advanced. "Sam!"

Sam groaned and forced himself up, pushing glass into his palms in the process, ignoring the pain. The demon had Rupert cornered at the window, and there was no doubt what his intention was. He staggered upright and grabbed a large vase. The demon turned just as he slammed it onto its head

It stumbled, then fell to one knee. Sam hit it again, this time with a broken piece, saw the blood well, and made himself stop. This was Dean's body; there was no telling what damage he'd feel when he returned to it. He backed away as the demon slowly rose, a little tilted, hazel eyes burning. "Rupert! If you know something that'll put this thing to sleep, now's the time!"

"I'm looking!" Rupert was at his desk, digging frantically. He pulled out a notebook and quickly shuffled through the pages. Words filled the air. Words Sam didn't know. Not Latin by any stretch of the imagination. The demon advanced, wrapping familiar hands around Sam's throat, pushing him against the window.

Sam tried to pry away the grip, tried to escape the bend of the glass that was seconds from shattering behind his weight. His cut hands throbbed. Blood covered the demon's grip, making it slick, and Sam managed to twist the hands away, raising a fist to bloody the demon's nose. He frowned as Dean's nose started to bleed.

Rupert's chant continued. The demon looked up, snarled, and lunged at Sam, sending them both crashing through the window.

Sam landed hard on his back, the demon on top of him, glass around them, covering them. He gasped in pain, feeling the shards dig into his back. The demon rose to straddle him, his brother, only not his brother, and Sam suddenly felt he was out of strength, and out of options. Then those hazel eyes rolled, and the demon slid off of him and landed in a heap on the ground.

Rupert climbed out through the busted window, jumping lightly to the ground. "Good thing it was the ground floor," he said quickly, giving Sam a hand up. "Jesus. We've got to get you to a hospital."

"No time," Sam gasped. "Help me." He reached down and pulled Dean's body up. One arm was looped over his shoulder, the other over Rupert's. "What did you do to the demon?"

"What you said. I put it to sleep. I think."

"How long?"

"I don't know."

Sam nodded and staggered to the Impala. He carefully set the body in back, and was about to take the driver's side when Rupert stopped him. He turned as bid, and yelled out at the sudden pain in his back, replaced by pressure. "Sorry," Rupert said. "Glass sticking out of your back."

Sam's head swam. He leaned over the hood of the car, regaining his focus. "Dean," he gritted through his teeth. "We have to get Dean."

Rupert nodded and climbed into the passenger side.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The moon was high, a thin slice of silver in a peaceful sky. On the ground, the situation was anything but peaceful. Sam pulled the body from the back of the car, and the two of them toted it to the cross. "We have to tie him like he was," Sam said. "Help me." Together they propped Dean's body against the cross and bound him tightly. The head slumped forwards, then started to raise.

Sam limped backwards. His brother's body was bleeding, and again, strung up like a sacrifice. Tears stung his eyes, and he blinked rapidly. In a way, it was all too appropriate. He schooled his face and gave Rupert a severe look. "I want your word," he growled, "that you will never, ever, touch this stuff again. Never. You got that?"

Rupert merely nodded, a shadow of the man he was.

Sam nodded back and searched the ground. He glanced up at the sky. "Okay, start talking. Say what that guy was saying the night of the transfer."

"What?"

"Just do it!" Sam snatched up the shovel he had brought with him, and was running as best he could, up the hill. He could hear Rupert's voice chanting, a voice that grew more faint as he crested the top. He stood in the spot where he and Dean had been when they were taken, and looked down.

The pattern was there, as he thought. One triangle pointed to the crypt in the far distance, one pointed to the cross which held Dean. He waited, and the pattern started to glow faintly in the moonlight. It was subtle, something that couldn't be seen from within the circle. But standing over it, the glow was noticeable. Sam waited until he could see the pattern clearly, until there was a sign of power around the cross, until he saw his brother's body jerk as it had done the previous night. In the distance, Ernestine's crypt glowed.

Sam was standing at the top of the circle. He scuffed his boot deep into the ground, drew it back, and scarred it.

There was an audible pop. His head snatched up. The crypt continued to glow, to pulsate, and on the cross, the demon in Dean cried out in anger. "That's it," Sam snarled. "Go back to hell, you bastard." He stabbed the shovel into the ground and pried up a plug of earth, breaking the line.

The demon screamed out. Again it was Dean's voice, but menacing, something he never wanted to hear from his brother ever again. He continued to dig, and the demon continued to cry out, until the glow of the crypt fell dim, and a good six feet of the outer circle was destroyed.

The lines of power surrounding Dean popped and fizzled. Sam limped down the hill, cursing his knee as he tried to gain speed. Rupert was releasing Dean, who seemed to be standing on his own, but only for a moment.

Sam watched in horror as his brother slumped to the ground and didn't move. "Dean!" He ran to the still body, skidding to his knees in the grass and damn, but that hurt. He ignored the pain and quickly cupped his hands around Dean's face, pressing his thumb, then fingers to the side of Dean's neck, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

"No. No, no, no, come on, Dean, don't do this." One hand went to Dean's chest, waiting for a heartbeat. Still nothing. "Come on, man, don't make me do CPR on you, you'll never let me live it down. Dammit!" He felt for a pulse again, frantically, then started chest compressions, ignoring the pain in his hands, in his back, his abused knee. He tilted Dean's head back, and breathed for him. Chest compressions. Breathe. Compressions. "Don't you dare leave me," Sam muttered angrily. "This wasn't a part of the deal. You hear me? You're supposed to have a year. And we're going to fix that, too, so don't you dare leave me now. Wake up, dammit!"

Sam glanced up at Rupert while working, and nearly paused. He was walking from the crypt, holding his beloved, stroking her cracked face. His panic increased, because Rupert was staring right into Ernestine's eyes. "Rupert! Is she looking back at you?" Surely this worked. Surely to God it worked.

A tear-stained face raised, and looked across the way, and found his. "What?"

A breath. Compressions. Desperation. "IS SHE LOOKING AT YOU?"

Rupert's voice choked. "No. She was. But not now."

Was? Not now? Sam stopped the compressions and patted Dean's cheek hard, watching as the head lolled slightly. He cursed, his tears making it nearly impossible to see. "Come back, man, come on! Look at me! Open your eyes, dammit!" He started compressions again, and leaned over to breathe.

Hazel eyes flew open, scaring Sam. Dean gasped loudly, his mouth gaping, his eyes darting everywhere. Arms reached out blindly for everything and nothing, and Sam grabbed at them. "Dean! Is it you?" There was rapid blinking, then a frightened and confused look answered the question for him.

"Dean! Oh GOD!" Sam jerked his brother to him by his jacket, engulfing him in a suffocating hug. "Oh, thank God."

Dean coughed violently against his shoulder. Sam clung to him, rubbing his back, saying his name until he heard a voice rough with fear. "Sammy? I – shit."

"Dean. It's okay, you're back. I've got you."

He could feel the heavy breaths, feel his brother's heart pounding. "Is it really you? Say it's you, tell me I'm not. . ." Dean forced the sentence out.

"Yeah, it's me. I've got you, Dean, I've got you. You're okay now. Hear me? You're back, you're okay." And it was a testament to just how frightened his brother had been, that not only did he allow Sam to hold him, but wrapped his arms around his little brother and hugged him back tightly in turn, clutching Sam's shirt in tight fists.

"I – I was dead," Dean whispered. "I was dead. But I wasn't dead. I was just – shit."

"I know," Sam soothed, gripping the back of Dean's neck, holding him close. But he didn't know, he couldn't even imagine it. Sam clung to him, not wanting to visualize the nightmare his brother had lived through.

Dean pulled back slightly, and Sam released his embrace, but held onto Dean's arms, not letting him go, reassuring him through touch and physical presence. He looked into Dean's eyes, not letting him look away, not letting him pull back. His brother looked more steady, still scared but recovering, putting up that barrier between himself and fear that Sam knew so well. He was glad to see it go up, to see a glimmer of the hunter return to Dean. He was even relieved to see that his brother was looking out for him after all he'd been through. Large eyes swiftly ran over Sam's body. "What the hell happened to you?" he coughed out.

The pain was returning. He saw Dean take in his damaged hands. "It's a long story."

"You okay?"

Sam wanted to hug him again. "I'm fine."

Dean looked like he wasn't too sure about that, but he wasn't about to argue. His eyes closed, then opened as he regained his equilibrium. "Where is the evil bastard?" he asked, his voice still rough and harsh.

"Over there," Sam said, nodding to the base of the cross where Rupert clutched the corpse. Rupert's expression was empty, as empty as that of his dead love.

Sam helped Dean to his feet and slowly released him, letting him walk to Rupert, almost as though in a dream. His steps were uncertain and made Sam want to follow, and he did follow halfway, but then he hung back. He was just within earshot of their low conversation.

Dean knelt down beside Rupert and looked at the corpse he'd been trapped in. "Rupert."

Rupert jerked his head round and stared. "Dean. It worked."

"Yeah." Dean pressed his lips together tightly.

Sam shifted, not certain if Dean was going to let the incident go with that comment or throttle the disturbed man.

Dean just winced at the body. A myriad of emotions passed quickly over his face, then vanished. "Rupert," he said softly, shakily, "you've got to let her go, man. It's past time, don't you think?"

"It should've worked," Rupert muttered. "I don't understand what happened."

Dean nodded. Sam continued to watch, knowing that feeling all too well, and the trouble it caused, and he could see that understanding cross over Dean's face in a brief show of sympathy. But he also saw the anger directed towards Rupert, anger so tangible that it was hard for Dean to visibly keep it in check. "Yeah, well, that's the supernatural for you," Dean said. "Things rarely go as planned. Just, let her go, Rupert, please. For all our sakes."

Rupert looked at Dean, then down at his beloved. "She won't come back."

"No."

"She's really gone."

Dean just looked at him.

Rupert gave a shuddering sigh and released the body. It rolled half from his lap with an odd, stiff sound of crinkled material.

Dean stood and helped Rupert to his feet. "Go with Sam," he said. "You don't want to see this." Rupert merely nodded numbly.

Sam closed the distance between them and steered Rupert toward the Impala. "You sure you want to do this?" he asked Dean quietly once Rupert was out of earshot.

"I want this bitch gone," Dean muttered carefully.

Sam's forehead pinched in worry. He hovered. "You okay?"

It was a loaded question, and there was no easy answer to it. "I'm fine. Get him out of here. Take him to the car and wait for me."

Sam took a deep breath, then released it and nodded. He followed Rupert to the car as Dean slowly took a box of matches from his jacket pocket.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I knew we shouldn't have left." Sam shifted slightly, favoring his wrapped knee. He turned his laptop to face Dean, mindful of his bandaged hands. Both men were cut up and bruised, and earned several cautious looks as they entered the small diner outside Wichita.

Dean looked up from his notebook. A white bandage covered his forehead, but didn't obscure his expression of distaste as he read the name. "Rupert Glassier Grainger found dead." He frowned and leaned forward, reading through the details of the article and summarizing them out loud. "Rupert Glassier, thirty-three, was found dead in his home last night from an apparent suicide. He was shot in the head. No evidence of a break-in or struggle. On his writing desk was a note, 'To my love, I'll see you soon,' I guess he got his wish then. Wonder if he's where she is. I mean, with our luck he'll come back to haunt our asses." He returned to his notebook.

Sam turned the laptop back to him, studying his brother's reaction to the news. "I just hope he's found the peace he wanted."

"Well, I guess if anyone deserved such an end, he did. What?" He glowered at Sam's disapproving gaze, then frowned back down at his notebook.

Well, he couldn't blame Dean for the attitude. "No, it's okay. I get it." Sam leaned over his elbows on the table. He hadn't asked Dean what it was like, and his brother hadn't volunteered any information. The night Dean returned to him he'd been surprisingly calm. There was no discussion, and his sleep was deep, leaving Sam to wonder if his brother ever had nightmares about anything. Maybe his conscious didn't allow it. Maybe he was lucky enough to get what he wanted, and was willing to let it go at that. Maybe if Rupert hadn't waited so long to work his magic – maybe, maybe, maybe. What was dead should stay dead.

Sam was beginning to wonder if that comment still held meaning.

He watched Dean for a moment, then cleared his throat. "I'm just glad it's over. Don't think I could get used to calling you ErnesDean."

Dean's brows rose. "You did _not_ just say that."

"'Fraid so." Sam gave a hopeful smile, and was pleased to see his brother merely shake his head in disgust.

"So," Dean said, sounding rightfully put-out, "I hear there's a gig in Georgia."

"Dean, shouldn't you rest a bit?"

"Pot– kettle, Sam. Besides, people to see, monsters to slay, all that good stuff."

Maybe work would keep him from thinking too much. Sam knew that Dean was a thinker. He was too much of a thinker, actually, very much a doer, and not much for emoting. It was a wonder he didn't have ulcers.

Of course, maybe he did, but just didn't say anything.

Dean was still trying to reel Sam in for the next case. "No graveyards."

Sam decided to bite. "Yeah? That's too bad, because I hear that one in Savannah is a real treat."

Curious brows rose. "Seriously?"

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked. "I thought you said no more graveyards?"

"The dead don't scoff at my jokes like some people I know. You gonna pay this tab, or what?" Dean flung the bill at Sam and sat back in the booth, his fingers threaded behind his head.

Sam just gave an incredulous smile and rose to pay. Dean smirked, but his eyes were haunted.

He'd keep this inside, just like everything else, just like he felt he was expected to do. And Sam would say nothing about it, because he knew that when the time was right, when Dean felt in control again, he would let Sam help him. Then he would feel justified in badgering Dean with the questions until the dam spilled, and after, help him to fortify the barrier that would allow him to function without going insane.

Sam handed the bill to the cashier and glanced back. Dean was watching him intently, fingers still threaded behind his head. Their eyes locked.

Of course, a lot of times there was no need for words, when all the help in the world was available in a mere look. Sam finished the transaction and walked back to the table. Dean grabbed his jacket without a word, but there was a small smile on his lips.

And Sam noticed.

-end-


End file.
